Episode 9: Bloatmingle and the lazy-eyed Swede

Previously on Bloatmingle of the Yard... Detective Inspector Bloatmingle had been in worse predicaments. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember any since his memory had been rendered momentarily useless, possibly due to the biting cold, equally possibly by his standing without his trousers on the edge of the Clifton Suspension Bridge with the nose of a single-barrel shotgun pointing at his groin.

‘So, Inspector,’ said the small Swede with the lazy eye. ‘It looks like our game has come to an end.’

‘You won’t get away with this,’ promised Bloatmingle, his temper frayed by the bitter northerly cutting in up the Avon Gorge and whipping through his silk shorts and tickling him on the side he normally dressed with his Webley revolver. He wished he had Old Harriot with him now so he could show this swine a thing or two…

‘On the contrary,’ returned the Swede. ‘You failed to liberate Lady’s Poundland’s emerald which we now have lubricated and in the safe keeping of Cavity Charlie, the world’s most successful smuggler and the man of a thousand hiding places. Your customs people will never find it!’‘That’s where you’re wrong, Torg Fllapstang!’ said Bloatmingle, playing his trump card. ‘We knew all about your arrangement with Charlie and that’s why yesterday I called Edinburgh Airport and asked that they send Duncan McTickle to London immediately with his biggest jar of KY jelly.’

‘Not Fingers McTickle!’

‘The very same! When Cavity Charlie arrives at Heathrow, he’ll be met by the customs official with the longest digits in the business!’

‘Damn your meddling, Bloatmingle!’ cursed the Swede, prodding the shotgun hard through the fly of Bloatmingle’s boxers. The Inspector winced but inwardly he smiled.

Every super villain he’d ever caught had eventually made at least one fatal mistake. The Swede had made his first by showing the Inspector the paper-wrapped shells he’d loaded into his shotgun. The second mistake was the prod. Bloatmingle was now thankful for the cold wind whistling around his privates. He knew that he’d won the moment he felt his chilled manhood slip effortlessly into the end of the shotgun’s barrel. Now all he had to do was relax.

Except relaxing was not easy… Not because of the cold, the gun, the height, of the thought of his imminent death. Bloatmingle could never go when somebody was watching and although the Swede was now looking up the road waiting for the arrival of the convoy, his lazy eye remained fixed on the Inspector.

‘When they get here, our plans will be complete!’ boasted the Swede, his fingers lingering on the detonator to the explosives planted beneath the bridge. ‘Your stupid Scotland Yard will be a laughing stock across the world like your pitiful country lamenting the loss of an outmoded ideal… How do you say: you’ll be like Queen Victoria. History, Bloatmingle! History!’

‘Perhaps they’ll put up statues of me,’ said the Inspector, trying to think about river and streams, raindrops and waterfalls, a leaking tap and… Ah, the leaking tap! Never underestimate the power of the leaking tap! This time it was going to save an Empire!

‘But tell me,’ sighed Bloatmingle, as he felt his warm waters run. ‘You had this planned all along?’

‘We couldn’t let you stick your nose where’s it not wanted,’ replied the Swede.‘Perhaps more than just my nose,’ said Bloatmingle, blessing his third pint of Snorgwall’s Gutter Swill he’d drank earlier that evening.

The Swede’s eyes narrowed and looked at Bloatmingle. ‘Why can I smell asparagus?’

‘Possibly my aftershave,’ said Bloatmingle thinking quickly. ‘Mrs Boatmingle makes it herself once she’s finished distilling her gin.’

The Swede’s eyes narrowed to slits and Boatmingle damned his stubborn loyalty to Mrs Wangle’s fish and asparagus pie which she served every Friday in the Yard’s cafeteria.

‘You better not try anything funny,’ said the small man.

Bloatmingle was about to assure him that nothing funny was going to happen when there was suddenly a funny noise, like a slide whistle or the sound you get when you’re filling a milk bottle and you’re about to reach the top. The Swede looked down at the shotgun and noticed a thin stream of liquid running down the barrel. Bloatmingle didn’t hesitate and swung one arm in an attempt to knock the gun to the side. Only the Swede was quicker and squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell onto the now damp shell which took a fraction of a moment longer than usual before it detonated. It was just enough time for Bloatmingle to jump out of the line of fire.